The Question
by DowagerInTraining
Summary: It's the beginning of the Christmas Holidays and Mr Moseley is preparing to return to the Abbey after finishing the school term. He has much to celebrate and hopes to have more to celebrate, hopefully after asking one long overdue and extremely important question...


Tonight, he nodded to himself. _I have to ask her tonight. I've put it off for too long._

Inside, his stomach curdled with self doubt. The flavour was stronger and more bitter than the doubts that had wracked him when he first started teaching. He almost guffawed to himself. How strange, that he was more frightened about asking one grown woman one question than he was of starting his new career.

He still remembered those early lessons, stood in front of a class, sensing the hostility from all of the children, feeling like he had made a mistake of epic proportions. It was only her reassurance that had helped him to return, to walk back down to the village and face a second lesson with them. Had he been left to himself, he would have gone straight to Mr Dawes and told him the whole thing had been a ghastly mistake.

And yet here he was … sat in his robes, at the wooden desk, while his charges diligently copied out their fair and final copies of compositions about the five key moments that defined the path of the glorious revolution of the 1600s. The light was fading from the sky already, just two hours after lunch. It was the last afternoon before school broke up for the Christmas break, and, much to Mr Moseley's satisfaction, all of them were still working hard. Little did they know that there was a large tin of homemade cakes hidden inside his desk to celebrate the end of term once the essays were all done and dusted.

A hand snaked into the sky from the middle row. "Mr Moseley Sir," piped Rosie, "Can you check my spelling please, I don't know if I've got this word right…"

Heaving down from his desk, he paced between the desk, gently pointing out a couple of errors and soon the hands were blossoming in the air like Christmas roses. Nobody in the class was afraid to ask Mrs Moseley for help, the school had rarely known such a kind and patient teacher.

Rummaging in his pocket for a pencil, his fingers brushed against the little box hidden in there., jolting his thoughts back into the well worn train. It had been hidden there for three weeks now. There had been three Sunday afternoon cups of tea, three meetings at church, and a handful of other meetings about the village, and still the box had remained in his pocket waiting for the right moment. Which still hadn't come.

Which is why he must do it tonight. He _must_ do it tonight. It had been far too long.

Back at the front of the class, Mr Moseley called the class's attention back to him, asking his senior monitor to go around and collect the work to be marked over the holidays. The cake tin emerged, happy smiles and small gasps of joy emerged from the students, and soon the classroom was filled with the sound of unaccustomed munching, as the very strict no-eating-at-desks rule was relaxed. The afternoon ended with a riotus game of tag and brisk round of cleaning up, and everyone lined up to shake Mr Moseley's hand, and that of Mr Dawes, before streaming out into the playground to run home and start the Christmas holidays.

"Don't work too hard over the holidays, Mr Moseley," Mr Dawes nodded to the pile of essays his colleague was gathering up. "Make sure you make some time to rest and have some fun too."

"Of course Mr Dawes."

"Do you have plans for the holidays?"

"I'm actually going up to the Abbey tonight. It's the Christmas Carol Concert for the tennant farmers, and Mr Barrow has asked me to go up and lend a hand taking the drinks out. And then we'll be able to join in with the singing and have a spot of supper."

"Well … that will be a nice way to start things off. And it will be lovely for you to see your old friends."

One friend in particular, thought Moseley, smiling to himself.

It was only fitting that it should be asked at the Abbey really. It was where everything had started, for both of them. Or restarted, would be a more apt thing to say. He remembered that early conversation between them, about how they had both taken a lot of rubbish that life had dished out to them, and still managed to make fresh starts.

He hoped this would be another fresh start. Surely it wouldn't be a mistake…

He had worked alongside them for years, but he knew so little about women, when it came to this sort of thing. There had been few opportunities for romance over the years. The last serious prospect, at least in his mind, had been Anna. Although looking back now, he could see that he had never been a serious candidate for her affections. Her discreet and loyal heart had belonged to Mr Bates long before he had made his tentative and halting enquiries.

She had remained a good and loyal friend though, as had John Bates.

But what if this good lady only thought of his as a friend too?

That cold crippling feeling of self doubt snaked back into his stomach as he trudged home through the winter afternoon. What if he had left this too long, and too late, after all this time?

Key in the lock, he let himself into the cottage, hung up his coat and gown at the door and unlaced his outdoor boots. The kettle was soon filled and placed on the range, his small teapot warmed and readied for his customary afternoon cup of tea.

The cup and saucer were a gift. So was the tea cosy, hand knitted and sewed together in the diligent dainty stitches he knew so well. They had edged handkerchiefs, embroidered patterns and fixed and mended so many small sundry items for him over the years. Everywhere he looked around the cottage there were so many reminders of her. So many moments of kind thoughtfulness. The leather cover for his current book. The small tin for his pencils, carefully cleaned and polished to a shine. And the fine fountain pen that lay upon his desk, a present from her, obtained from York on a special trip and engraved with his name, to commemorate him beginning his full time career as a teacher.

Everyone else had sent kind words and sentiments, and the Bates' had gotten up a card to be signed by everyone, but only she had marked the occasion with a gift.

Looking out his livery, which he had picked up from the Abbey a few days ago in readiness, Mr Moseley pondered where he should ask the question. And when. Should it be at the beginning of the evening? But what it she said no? Would it spoil the whole event for them both? Or perhaps at the end… But that could lead to soured memories and awkwardness if there was no time to sort things out afterwards.

The kettle sang and shrieked on the hob, interrupting his train of thoughts. But only briefly.

Round and round like one of Lady Rose's gramaphone records they ran through his head, all through getting ready, the walk up through the village, and the fleeting dash back to his cottage to retrieve the box from the pocket of his teaching robes. How bizarre that he should have his thoughts so taken up with the question that he had forgotten the key accessory for the moment. And how fitting that he should have made a mess of things once again.

He shook himself, The walk up would clear his head. There was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all. Which made the grip of fear inside his lungs so strange.

It was like going back in time, entering the back door of the Abbey, into the passage and through to the warm servant's hall. The room was decorated by the younger staff, a small plump Christmas Tree was strung with tinsel, and there were strings of cards around the room. Some paper chains hung from the ceiling. Mr Carson would never have approved of anything so vulgar, but Mr Barrow was a younger soul and a little more in tune with the wishes of the staff. Two years on from Lady Edith's new year wedding, and he had settled into Mr Carson's copious shoes as Butler, and while he had not filled in them, he had learned to walk in them with relative ease.

"Mr Moseley! What a treat to see you, we're just finishing tea, come in and have a cup with us."

"I don't mind if I do, Mrs Hughes, thank you very much."

And then suddenly, there she was. She quietly came back into the room to retrieve her sewing box, Lady Grantham's dress draped over her arm, her hand filled with small sundries to complete the costume.

"Hello Mr Moseley, how lovely to see you…"

His smile felt so wide, he felt it could power the room. All of the background noise faded away for a few seconds, before his ears cleared and he realised that Mr Bates was asking him about his teaching charges at the school. Dragging his thoughts back to cordial conversation, he explained about the essay he had set, before realising that the subject matter was beyond most of the staff. He moved on to talk about the jam buns and game of tag, and was rewarded with a more invested set of smiles.

"I do hope you won't be too busy with marking over the holidays."

How like her to understand him, to know that if they had put the effort into the writing, he would but the effort into the feedback.

"Oh, well, it won't be too difficult, there's only sixteen of them in the class, and some of them are rather short. There is one who has made a really good effort though. Mr Dawes wants us to look at the Grammar School scholarship next year."

There was some kind nods. How nice of Mr Moseley to help try to raise the dreams of a young boy from the village. Mr Moseley smiled to himself, holding the last little bit of information to himself as a secret. They didn't need to know the identity of his favourite student.

The bell rang for Lady Grantham's room.

"I'd best get on, but I'll see you later."

"Right, can we get the upstairs hall sorted? The tables are in place but the glasses need taking up, when will the punch be ready Mrs Patmore…?"

The house stirred back into life. There would be time later. He would make time later. It was too important not to.

The chorus of 'O Come All Ye Faithful' echoed through the halls. The party was in full swing, the nibbles and drinks had disappeared at a rate. The party was getting ready for Lord Grantham's traditional speech, and Lady Mary's traditional solo. Some aspects had never changed over the years.

There was a sudden warm and familiar presence at his elbow. Her smile was just a gentle and warm as he remembered when they had lived under the same roof.

"Isn't it lovely that they keep the old traditions alive? We all know what's coming next."

This woman was so in step with his own thoughts.

He had to ask her.

In fact, he had to ask her now.

"I wonder, Miss Baxter, if we could have a word … in private?"

Confusion over her face, for one little moment. Followed by something that looked like, hope? Was it hope? He was so unfamiliar with the expression in people's faces when they spoke to him, except when it was hope that he would cease talking and go away. He had seen that often enough, but never in her face.

"Certainly. Would now be a good time?"

As good a time as any.

"Could we talk downstairs?"

"Of course."

They went through the door and downstairs. There were still one or two hard working maids bustling, so they instead took their coats and went outside into the courtyard.

The first flakes were starting to fall. For the first time in his life, Moseley became aware of the importance of coming to the point as swiftly as possible.

"Miss Baxter…"

She turned to face him.

"It was so lovely to hear about your student. The one taking the exam for the grammar school. Who's the lucky boy?"

He smiled to himself. It was an interruption, but not an unwelcome one. This was a story he wanted to share.

"Well … I didn't like to say in front of everyone else, but the truth is … it's not a boy."

"I don't understand, what do you … oh!"

Recognition spread over her face.

"Who is it?"

"It's Charlotte Webber. From the Home Farm. The eldest girl."

"And her parents don't mind?"

"Well, her mother wasn't convinced. But her father is proud as punch to hear she's doing so well. He's worried about the cost of course, but that's why we're going to go after the scholarship."

"Do you really think she's got a chance?"

"I do. I really do. I wouldn't put her up for it if I thought she was going to fail."

"It could change everything for your students in the future. It will open so many doors for them. I'm so pleased for you, well done Mr Moseley! You must be so proud."

"I am proud. And … well … I hope to be more proud. In a moment. After we've talked. I mean, after I've been able to talk to you. Just private, like, on our own."

 _Stop stuttering, you old fool._

"I'm always glad to talk to you Mr Moseley."

There was that look again. Hope. A little warm flare in his stomach started to glow.

"It's just that, what I wanted to say was very private, and I hoped to not have an audience of, well, everyone, hanging around."

She waited. Calm and patient as she had been for years.

"The thing is … I miss talking to you. I miss seeing you, every day. I miss … being able to tell you news like this, because you're the only one who understands how important it is. The rest of them wouldn't understand why this is such a big thing for me, about how proud I am of Charlotte, and all the rest of my students. And I know we haven't lost touch and that I still see a lot of you, but there is a great hole in my life without you sitting next to me."

The practice of being a teacher had made him a far more eloquent public speaker than he used to be. All he needed to do now was not trip up.

"Mr Moseley, I …"

"I wonder … would you consider calling me Joseph? After we've been friends for such a long time."

"I can do that. Joseph."

Oh how sweet his name sounded in her voice. Nothing had felt so precious for such a long time.

"And … if I may, I wonder if I could ask you something. If I could ask you a question."

"What is your question, Joseph?"

 _Come on man. Now or never._

Looking around, he satisfied himself that there was nobody around. Pulling out the small box from his pocket, he marvelled at how heavy it felt now. Like that hammer he had swung at the bazaar, at her urging and encouragement, one sweet summer day. When he had discovered his courage, stood up to Barrow and offered her his arm.

"Miss Baxter, I…"

"Perhaps, you could call me Phyllis? If I'm going to call you Joseph?"

He stuttered for a few moments.

"Alright. Phyllis … once years ago, you made me feel brave, and I offered you my arm, and you took it, and it was the best feeling I can recall in my whole life. And you've always been there next to me, ever since, through every good thing that has come through my life…"

 _Keep going …_

"And so … now I'd like to offer you my hand, and ask for yours."

There were few points of speech in his life that Moseley felt proud of, but this was one he would cherish as he bent to one knee and took out the box.

 _Don't drop it, don't drop it, don't drop it…_

He managed to open the box to reveal the gold ring, set with a garnet stone.

"Miss Baxter … Phyllis … would you do me the honour of giving me your hand, and becoming my wife?"

"Oh … Mr Moseley…"

She looked stunned. But she was smiling. He waited. He had had so much practice at waiting for answers in front of the classroom, but these three seconds were the longest he could remember.

"Yes … yes! I'd be delighted to accept."

She held out her hand and for a moment he forgot what he was meant to do. Then it came to him and he reached for her hand, fumbled the ring out of the box, and slid it onto her finger. It fit beautifully, snug and safe, exactly where it was meant to be. As if it had been made for her.

He stood, still holding her hand.

"Joseph…?"

"Yes…?"

"Aren't you going to kiss me?"

This was the bit he hadn't practiced for. Hadn't prepared for. Hadn't dared to dream about. But it was all real. All true. Bending down, almost dizzy with joy, his lips brushed against hers, chaste but still burning with longing, a sensation of years of wishing and hoping, all suddenly come to fruition in a moment of desperate bravery.

She looked breathless. He hoped it wasn't for bad reasons. It had been a long time, many years, since he had last kissed anyone. If he was honest with himself, it had been even longer since such an attention had been truly welcomed rather than endured from politeness.

"Oh Joseph … I thought you would never ask …"

"Oh Phyllis … I never thought you would say yes. I don't quite know what to do next."

"Perhaps we can figure that out together."

Her fingers laced between his, her hand fitting perfectly into his, exactly where it had always meant to be.

"Yes … I think perhaps we can."

"Come on then. Let's go and take the next step and tell people."

They returned to the Abbey, adding an extra little tableau of love to the traditional concert, already the backdrop to so many moments of happiness at the dear old house.


End file.
